


Stealing Mona Lisa

by Soprano



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Abduction, Case Fic, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-01
Updated: 2014-11-07
Packaged: 2018-02-11 09:01:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 29
Words: 16,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2062077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Soprano/pseuds/Soprano
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a bomb goes off in 221B, John is incapacitated and Sherlock is abducted. This forces Mycroft and Lestrade to work together in order to bring Sherlock back. Things get progressively more complicated as the true motives for Sherlock's abduction come into light.</p><p>A/N: Both relationships listed are featured in approximately the same amount, so, please, keep that in mind if you're only interested in one pairing, but not the other.<br/>_______________________<br/>Trigger Warnings: abduction, containment, vaguely-described torture.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Mr Holmes...” A young man who was doomed on his 3rd day of work with the task of delivering bad news to the formidable government official was now standing with his eyes slightly lowered. “I'm sorry to...inform you...”  
“I know.” Mycroft said coldly, unable to bear the man's jittery, intimidated presence any longer. “Leave.”  
As the young man obeyed with relief, Mycroft returned to what he'd been doing for nearly an hour now – re-watching surveillance camera footage over and over. A package was delivered to 221B Baker Street. Mere hours later, there was an explosion, followed by hospitalization of Dr John Watson and disappearance of Sherlock Holmes. The cameras in the vicinity were disabled for several minutes after the explosion, which was just long enough for whatever happened to happen. And all Mycroft had now was footage of a package being delivered. It wasn't a postman who delivered it. It was the person responsible for all this, or someone connected to that person.  
The phone rang.  
“Mr Holmes...”  
“Detective Inspector.” Mycroft acknowledged Lestrade's voice on the other end of what could turn out to be an extremely unpleasant conversation. “I am aware of the incident. How much do you know?”  
“Well, there is virtually no evidence. What wasn't destroyed by the explosion was wiped out while the fire was being put out. Forensics are there right now, but I doubt they'll be able to find much.”  
“How is Dr Watson?”  
“Stable, but unconscious.”  
“Good.”  
There was a pause.  
“How is that good?”  
“As soon as the good doctor wakes up and finds out what happened, he'll dismiss any medical recommendations and quite a bit of common sense as well in order to find Sherlock. This will put him, and possibly my brother as well, in an unknown amount of danger. We do not yet know what we're dealing with. Watson is safer with Morpheus for now.”  
“Oh.” Lestrade's sigh was audible even after traveling through the depths of mediocre telephone connection. “Yeah, I suppose you're right.”  
“Where are you, Detective Inspector?”  
“On the scene.”  
“I'll be there within the hour.”  
“You will...you mean...yourself?”  
“Yes, myself. No need to sound so shocked.”  
“Well, you're just not usually one for legwork.”  
“That might be true in most cases, but I'm sure you realize this situation is quite unique.”  
“Of course.”  
Mycroft returned the phone to its resting place and rose off his chair. His expression was as calm and composed as ever, but his eyes were filled with anger and determination. While the Holmes brothers never expressed much affection for one another, Mycroft took Sherlock's abduction as a personal insult. He would get as involved as was necessary.


	2. Chapter 2

“Mr Holmes...” Lestrade greeted Mycroft as he extracted himself from a black car. The cold determination in Mycroft's eyes prompted the policeman to get right to business. “Bomb squad retrieved a device. They believe it was motion-triggered.”  
“Where is the device now?”  
“At their lab.”  
Mycroft gave Anthea, who was now standing beside him, a silent look. She nodded and made herself busy with her phone. Lestrade could only assume what was happening, but he assumed correctly.  
“I believe this is what it looked like before it destroyed 221B.” Mycroft gave Lestrade an image from the surveillance footage.  
“Do you know who that is?” Lestrade indicated the person delivering the package.  
“No. They were careful. Never giving the camera a good angle.” He glanced at the remains of 221B. “I'd like to see what's left of the flat.”  
“It's a crime scene, you're not technically supposed to be here.”  
“My brother is not technically supposed to be at any of your crime scenes either.”  
“He's an official consultant.”  
“That would imply payment.”  
“It's not my fault he won't--”  
“Relax, Detective Inspector.” Mycroft cut him off before the conversation turned into an unnecessary argument. “You will not get into any trouble for allowing me to examine the scene, I assure you.”  
Lestrade let out a sigh, but he knew that much was true. Besides, having a Holmes on the scene always raised the chances of the case being solved. And this wasn't just any case. These was far more at stake than just finding the culprit. 

Mycroft took in the depressing crater that was once 221B. The bomb did not destroy everything, it was meant to incapacitate rather than kill. But it started a fire, which turned much of the flat to ash. There was minimal structural damage. The flat could eventually be restored. But that wasn't anyone's primary concern right then. Not even for Mrs Hudson, who was stoically answering police questions outside. Her flat was in a terrible state as well, damaged quite significantly in the process of putting the fire out.  
Mycroft's eyes moved slowly across the room. He was not like Sherlock. While he was just as smart as his brother, maybe more so in some respects, he did not purposefully craft his mind to be a crime-solving machine. But that did not mean his genius could not be of use in the current situation.  
“What kind of injuries did Dr Watson sustain?” He examined the remains of the kitchen table, which was undoubtedly where the blast originated, while Lestrade made phone calls to request the relevant information.  
“Broken arm, some wounds from furniture fragments. Most of the burns are on his back.” He looked to Mycroft for insight. “So, he was facing away from the explosion?”  
“It is unlikely that my brother is the one that opened that package. It was almost certainly Dr Watson. But if the bomb exploded in his hands, most of the injuries would have been to the front of his body. That is not the case.”  
“What does that tell us?”  
“Nothing for certain. But if Dr Watson managed to turn away from the blast, then he either realized that he was holding a bomb, or my brother realized it for him. If the latter is the case, it means Sherlock was not far from the explosion himself.” Mycroft let out a barely audible sigh. “And now the doctor is in a hospital, unconscious, with severe injuries. What does that tell us about Sherlock's current condition?”


	3. Chapter 3

**_17 minutes before the blast_ **

John came home from work in a rather good mood. He brought in the mail and dropped it on the kitchen table, which was uncharacteristically clean. Sherlock was on the couch. Sleeping, thinking, putting colored markers on his thought folders, who knows.  
John put the kettle on and noticed movement on the couch.  
“Do you want tea?” Watson asked and got a mumbled huff in response, which he'd learned to interpret as 'yes'. As he waited for the water to boil he went through the mail. “Weird,” he commented on the small white box, “I don't remember ordering from them.”  
Sherlock half-opened his eyes at the sound of packaging paper being ripped.  
“John, STOP!”  
John stopped. He stopped as he heard a familiar click, so very similar to the one made my landmines. He froze with the lid of the box half-lifted.  
“Shit.” He closed his eyes and listened as Sherlock carefully approached him from behind.  
“Don't move.”  
“Figured.” Watson swallowed hard. “We need to call bomb disposal.”  
“No.” Sherlock moved John's chair carefully. “We don't know how sensitive the bomb is. Movement from additional people might set it off. Not to mention time might be a factor.”  
“What are you doing?”  
“Clearing a get-away path for you. You need to throw yourself as far away as possible from the bomb. If it's weak enough, you might survive.”  
“How reassuring.”  
“I'll find something to protect us from the blast once you let go.”  
“No.”  
“What?”  
“No, you leave. Right now.”  
“John, you have much better chances of--”  
“The longer I stand here, the more likely it is the bomb will go off. So, this running away plan of yours better be executed asap, and I'm not letting go until you're out of the building.”  
“I'm not leaving you.”  
“Sherlock, I'm holding a fucking bomb, stop arguing with me!” He could hear Sherlock huffing in anger and annoyance. “Please. Leave.”  
Finally there was a sigh of resignation.  
“Run as far back as you can. Into my chair, or even out of the window if you can. Breaking some bones is better than getting blown to pieces.” He wanted to touch John before leaving, but considering his current predicament, that was not the best idea. “I'll come for you after it goes off.”  
“You better.”  
John waited as Sherlock took his coat and moved carefully down the stairs. Luckily, Mrs Hudson wasn't home, so there was no need to get her out. After hearing the front door open and close, John gave it another minute, hoping that Sherlock would move away from the building. Then he took a deep breath, counted to 3, and ran towards Sherlock's chair.  
The bomb decimated the kitchen, and damaged the doors to the bathroom and Sherlock's bedroom, but as far as bombs go, it wasn't terribly destructive. John was temporarily knocked out. His clothes were on fire. But he was, for the most part, unharmed. What brought him back to consciousness was a scream from outside. Something muffled and unintelligible. But it was in Sherlock's voice, and that was all that mattered. John rose off the chair, disoriented. He stumbled towards the stairs, trying to pull off his burning clothes in the process. Unfortunately, the stairs were too hard a task in his state and he fell down the first flight, breaking his arm and knocking himself out. Paramedics arrived in time for his safe rescue, but by then, Sherlock was gone.


	4. Chapter 4

Lestrade looked at the older Holmes with a mix of guilt and helplessness in his eyes.  
“Do we even know Sherlock is missing?” The DI kept staring at the evidence file. “Maybe he's just off somewhere, investigating this, or something else. I mean, he's Sherlock.”  
“He was at home when the bomb went off.” Mycroft pointed out. “The GPS on his phone currently places the device to be somewhere in the depths of the Thames, and while my brother is a volatile and unpredictable force, I find it difficult to believe he would not check on Dr Watson if he could. Besides, the cameras outside 221B were manually disabled, on purpose.”  
“But if he's been abducted, wouldn't they ask for something? Ransom or whatever they want?”  
“Perhaps. But there's more to stealing people than money. Especially considering who it is they stole.” Mycroft's slightly condescending glance traveled around Lestrade's office. “What was my brother working on?”  
“There was a double homicide, but he solved it this morning. There wasn't anything high-profile. That I know of.”  
“My people are checking his website, Dr Watson's blog, their phone and email histories. But even if Sherlock was investigating something that could have garnered him a kidnapping, we might not be able to find traces of it.”  
“If he was getting close to something dangerous, wouldn't they just...you know, kill him?”  
“Aren't you a cheery one, Detective Inspector.”  
“I'm just saying. This is all very elaborate. A bomb, an abduction. Most criminals aren't this sophisticated.”  
“I suppose we got lucky then.”  
“Wouldn't have thought you'd be one to believe in luck.”  
“Hm.” Mycroft pulled out his phone to check his messages. “Only a fool would be arrogant enough to believe that absolutely everything in this world is controlled by the actions of humans.”  
Mycroft's eyebrows rose slightly as he read a message on the screen.  
“What is it?”  
“Something from Sherlock's website. From yesterday morning. It was deleted.”

_Mr Holmes,_  
 _I don't know if you have heard of me. I know you don't follow the news much. I am Lilly Dowson. My mother, Rachel Dowson, has been accused of murdering the man who lived upstairs from us. The police say there's all this evidence. But I know she didn't do it, Mr Holmes.  
Her trial is in 3 days. I don't know who else to turn to. They say you're the best. Please, Mr Holmes, you have to help her._

Lestrade hurried to locate the case file.  
“Rachel Dowson, stabbed the upstairs neighbor. Trial on Friday.” He looked at Mycroft with a glimmer of hope. “Think this might be it?”  
“It would explain the abduction. They don't need to kill Sherlock. They only need to keep him busy long enough for Ms Dowson to be convicted.”  
“So, whoever has Sherlock is the real killer?”  
“Or someone interested in this case going a certain way. Where is the daughter?”  
Lestrade looked through the file and sighed in exasperation.  
“We don't know. She ran away after we arrested the mother.”  
“Well then. It looks like we need to find her.”


	5. Chapter 5

Lestrade entered Mycroft's office. He'd been there before, on various occasions, but still he felt uncomfortable in the hostile room. It always felt like a bunker, like a place where no one but Mycroft belonged. The walls themselves seemed to tell you you were not welcome.  
Mycroft's eyes moved away from the screen for only a few seconds to acknowledge Lestrade's arrival.  
“The lead investigator on Lilly Dowson's case was really excited.” Lestrade informed. “They've been looking for her ever since she ran away, and there weren't any leads before. No relatives she could go to. Nothing to go on. This message could be a breakthrough.”  
“Hopefully.” Mycroft's voice was neutral and slightly detached.  
Lestrade watched the older Holmes, recognizing well-masked worry, and perhaps a tinge of guilt in his eyes. He wondered if offering emotional support would be overstepping boundaries.  
“What are you studying?” Greg asked, and immediately mentally chastised himself for the awkward question.  
“Surveillance footage.”  
“From before the bomb went off? I thought you said there wasn't anything helpful there.”  
“I thought, perhaps, I've missed something.”  
“How many times have you watched it?”  
Mycroft shook his head slightly, unable or unwilling to answer the question.  
“I've been able to calculate the almost-exact height and approximate weight of the bomb deliverer. I'm fairly certain it's a male.”  
“And what does that give us?” Lestrade's remark came off slightly more sarcastic than he'd intended.  
Mycroft raised his eyes to meet Lestrade's.  
“Do you suggest I give up?”  
“I suggest you stop blaming yourself.”  
“Excuse me?”  
“You think if you'd have seen that footage earlier, if you'd have figured out something was off with the package, you could have prevented it.” Lestrade felt guilty as a hint of vulnerability ran across Mycroft's face. “You need to stop that. I know you always try to protect Sherlock, but you can't blame yourself for this. It's just wrong, and not logical.”  
“Guilt isn't always logical, Detective Inspector.” Mycroft's voice was quieter than usual.  
“Yeah, well, that's emotions for you.”  
“A vile, unnecessary ailment of the human condition.”  
“Right.” Greg sighed. “And you and Sherlock are usually wonderful at fighting emotions. Which I personally think is not healthy. But of all the emotions you could have chosen to succumb to, you've chosen to be riddled with guilt that's not even justified?”  
“It is justified, Detective Inspector. It was within my capabilities to prevent this incident. I didn't. Guilt is the least I deserve.”  
Lestrade found himself speechless, taken aback both by the argument in question and the unexpected openness from the man that rarely ever showed the world much more than a veneer of indifferent superiority. The DI was at a loss for words.  
Anthea walked unknowingly into an awkward silence and broke it mercilessly with what looked like good news.  
“The computer analysts have finally delivered, sir.” She handed a piece of paper to Mycroft. “We know where the girl's message was posted from.”


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock woke up in the dark. He felt woozy from the tranquilizer that his abductors had introduced into his bloodstream via a needle to the jugular. The last thing he remembered was watching the glass from the windows of 221B fly out into the street with the force of the bomb blast. He rushed to get John, distracted enough by his worry to not notice a person coming up to him from the back, throwing a black bag over his head and dosing him with M99.  
He sat up, realizing that he was chained to the floor by both hands and feet. The chains were barely long enough to let him sit up comfortably. He looked around, but it was no use. The room, or rather container, that he was in had no windows, no cracks, nothing to allow any light whatsoever to enter, so the darkness was total. Sherlock was unfathomably angry at himself for allowing something like this to happen to him.  
It was all starting to make sense now. The plan was risky, but good. Whoever delivered the bomb knew John would be the most likely to open it. And then the bomb would either knock them both out or incapacitate Watson and distract Sherlock enough for the abductors to make their move.  
Sherlock was mentally going through the list of his enemies, trying to figure out which of them would be willing and capable of putting him in his current situation.  
The door creaked open. It was almost as dark outside as it was inside. Sherlock could barely make out a figure entering his cell.  
“Mr Holmes,” a female voice reverberated against the bare walls, “I know right now you're planning your escape, calculating what you could do to incapacitate me and free yourself. I strongly advise against it. You are chained and I have a gun and years of combat training.” She set something on the floor beside him. “We do not expect any kind of cooperation from you. You're far too proud for that. But for your own good, do not resist, do not try to escape. Or else you'll have to spend your stay with us in a state of constant sedation.”  
“What do you want from me?”  
“Nothing.”  
She left the room, bolting the door behind her. Sherlock was again in the state of complete darkness.  
He felt carefully around himself to find out what she'd set near him on the floor. There were 2 bottles. With water, presumably. He considered his options. For as long as he could, he wouldn't drink, of course. For fear of being dosed with something.  
The possibilities were endless. Maybe his captor told the truth, and he was only there for ransom or as a token to be traded for something else. Or they could be looking for information. Perhaps, the worst case scenario was that they simply wanted him to suffer. In which case nothing he said or did would change his situation. They could starve him, torture him, play mind games or simply keep him in a dark cell until he started going insane. Sherlock groaned in frustration over how humiliating it was to end up in a situation like this.  
He started analyzing his captor. Her voice, accent, intonations, how she walked, what she said. She didn't elaborate, didn't give him any extra information. Professional. Experienced. The only thing she let on was that she was not alone. Though, of course, that could be a lie, said merely to intimidate him. There was not enough data to make any concrete conclusions yet. And there was no new input. He almost considered taking a sip of the water, if only to find out if it was laced with something or not. The complete lack of stimulus was driving him crazy already, and he'd only been there for under and hour. His isolation was complete. He couldn't see or hear anything. He closed his eyes and retreated into the depths of his mind.


	7. Chapter 7

Mycroft and Lestrade, escorted by Anthea, Donovan and DI McCoy, the lead investigator on Lilly Dowson's case, arrived at what appeared to be an abandoned house.  
“This is the place?” Lestrade expressed his doubt.  
“It checks out.” Donovan confirmed.  
“It looks abandoned.”  
“Looks can be deceiving.” McCoy pointed out, pulling out her transceiver, in case back-up was needed. “I've seen many buildings like this when looking for missing kids. They find abandoned places and turn them into communal homes, drug dens, even brothels. We're lucky if she's just sleeping here and not something worse.”  
“How did she even access the web from here?”  
“Mobile phone.” Anthea clarified, slightly annoyed by Lestrade's tech illiteracy. Though her annoyance was imperceptible to the outside world.  
“I'll go in first. Alone.” McCoy commanded. “We don't want to scare her or anyone else who might be in there.”  
Everyone nodded their agreement. McCoy went in. Not 10 minutes later she returned with an unreadable expression on her face.  
“Well?” Lestrade gave in to his impatience.  
“I think...in light of this case being connected to a bombing, we need to get a bomb squad down here.”  
Everyone's faces fell. They expected many things, but not this.  
The house was empty. Completely empty, but for one thing. In the middle of the living room stood a big white box. An old freezer, most likely.  
Bomb disposal arrived with a portable X-ray device to radiograph the box. Then one of the officers approached Lestrade and McCoy.  
“It's...not a bomb.” The X-ray operator still held the screen in her hands. “You're looking for a missing girl, right?” She flipped the screen to show the image to the detectives. “I'm afraid you might have found her.” 

The old freezer contained the body of Lilly Dowson. She'd been dead for several days. Slightly decomposed, but still recognizable.  
“I know her mother is a killer,” McCoy sighed, “but I'll still hate having to deliver the news to her.”  
On top of the body lay an envelope, sheathed in a plastic bag, addressed simply to _M. Holmes_.  
“We need to get this to forensics first.” Donovan stopped Lestrade as he reached for the letter.  
He hesitated. Then he let out a huff in determination and put on some latex gloves.  
“No. This is an active abduction situation. I'm not waiting for Anderson to clear this while Sherlock's life might be at stake.”  
He opened the letter and held it out for Mycroft to see. 

_Mr Holmes,_

_We knew you'd find our little gift sooner or later._  
 _Your brother is with us. Don't worry, we have no intention of harming him, we only wish justice to be served. Rachel Dowson killed a dear friend of ours. We are not interested in seeing her go to prison. We want her to die._  
 _Bring her here, on the 17th, at 5pm, and you'll get your brother back in one piece._  
 _No police, no tricks, no negotiation. We don't care how you do it. Either we get Rachel, or you get your brother in the same condition as Lilly._

“What...” Lestrade stared at the letter in utter shock. “What are we going to do?”  
“Well,” Mycroft straightened out, composed as ever, “we have until 5pm on the 17th to figure that out.”


	8. Chapter 8

A police team surrounded Lestrade as he gave out orders with his back to the house. Lilly Dowson's body had been taken to the morgue, the letter was being analyzed by the forensics.  
“I want every inch of this place searched and studied. Any hidden doors, creaky floor boards, wall safes, wires – catalog everything, and report to me personally if you find anything even remotely suspicious.”  
Mycroft watched on, standing by his car, leaning onto his umbrella. He looked cold and poised as always, but having had a peek into the man's inner workings, Lestrade began noticing subtle tells of emotion. Worry and guilt were still there. And now there was something else. Doubt, perhaps. Or uncertainty.   
The DI simply walked up to Holmes and waited until he was willing to share his thoughts. It took some time, but not nearly as long as one would expect.   
“As you have correctly mentioned, Detective Inspector, this was all very elaborate. Too elaborate, perhaps, for something as simple as killing a murderer.” He ignored the expression of mild shock and offense on Lestrade's face. “They sent Dr Watson to hospital, kidnapped Sherlock, killed Lilly Dowson...and now they simply want us to deliver Rachel Dowson to them? With such level of preparation, they could have just as easily hired a sniper to take out Dowson on her way to court.”  
“Maybe they don't want to just kill her. Maybe they have...other plans.”   
“But do they truly expect their demand to be met? I'm sure they realize I'm working with the police. Do they expect me to steal Rachel Dowson from your custody? Or talk you into giving her to me?”  
“I guess they believe you can do that.”   
“I'm a lot less powerful than Sherlock likes to claim.”   
“Actually...I doubt Sherlock would give you more credit than you deserve. If anything, you're probably more powerful than he claims.”   
Mycroft rolled his eyes.   
“Even if I were the head of this country, using a prisoner awaiting trial in a trade-off with kidnappers is hardly something that can be done easily and quietly.”  
“Maybe that's what they want – a scandal.”  
“Why?”  
“I...I don't know.”   
Lestrade watched as doubt and determination tangoed in Mycroft's eyes. The DI had no doubt Mycroft would have no ethical problem with giving up a killer to be lynched by her enemies in order to rescue Sherlock. But this was far more complex than simply deciding whether or not your conscience could bear the consequences. Undoubtedly, Mycroft was considering all his options, thinking of which favors he'd need to call in to pull this off. Cover-ups were practically second nature to him.   
As he calculated what exactly he'd need to do to safely perform this transaction, he surprised himself as he suddenly realized he would regret losing whatever trust and respect Lestrade had for him. Whatever Mycroft did, however clean the paperwork would be, no matter how solid a plan he could come up with, Lestrade would always know. Even if he couldn't prove anything, and even if he chose not to pursue the matter, he'd know. And for a split second it genuinely bothered Mycroft. And that was a split second more than such a matter had ever bothered him before.  
Finally, Holmes turned to his car.  
“I have matters to attend to,” he stated in a neutral voice as he opened the door to disappear in his usual pompously mysterious fashion.  
“No, wait.” Lestrade grabbed Mycroft's arm in an almost-panicked motion, then jerked it away immediately. “Wait, don't.”  
“What is it do you not wish me to do exactly?”  
Lestrade sighed without taking his perpetually tired eyes off Mycroft.  
“Don't do this alone.”


	9. Chapter 9

Holmes and Lestrade now sat in the back of Mycroft's car, alone, separated from the rest of the world by bullet-proof doors and tinted glass, and a partition.  
Mycroft looked at Greg with a silent question until the DI finally caved.  
“Listen, I don't know what it is you want to do, how you're intending to handle this, and I won't ask. But there might be a better way.”  
“Define 'better'.”  
“Legal.”  
“That's not always better.” Mycroft leaned back in his seat. “Besides, what makes you think my way would necessarily be illegal?”  
“My point is, maybe you don't need to steal her, or extort her, or whatever it is you were going to do. Maybe we could just...ask her.”  
“Ask her to give herself up to her enemies to possibly be tortured and undoubtedly murdered?”  
“I know you're not just planning to go there alone, give them Dowson, take Sherlock and march out. You're no amateur, you have a myriad of henchmen.”  
“You're making me sound like a supervillain.”  
“If Dowson agrees to assist us, you go in with well-hidden back-up, and once the transaction is complete and Sherlock is safe, we'll arrest the abductors and return Dowson into police custody.” Lestrade rubbed his face, trying to convince himself any of this actually made sense. “We'll offer her a deal. Nothing drastic, but maybe a better prison or earlier chance for parole.”  
“And if she refuses?”  
“I don't know, but we have to at least try.”  
Mycroft looked out the window, taking a moment to consider what he was about to say.  
“Detective Inspector, there is a very big difference between you and me, I imagine. Even if we do this your way, even if Dowson agrees, and regardless of whether this is an official police operation or not, there is always a possibility that things could go wrong. And there could be a moment when a decision would need to be made on whether I'm willing to risk my brother's life in order to protect a murderer, or perhaps truly surrender her to these people in order to get Sherlock back – and I will not hesitate or have a crisis of conscience should such a moment present itself. I sincerely doubt that the same could be said for you.”  
Lestrade watched Mycroft as he spoke, voice cold and assertive, face neutral with just a hint of aggression. Like most people, Lestrade was always just a little bit afraid of Mycroft; but recently, the man's formidability started having less of an effect on the detective.  
“Does Sherlock actually realize how much you care about him?”  
Mycroft's expression turned mildly annoyed.  
“Do not attach more emotional meaning to this than necessary. He is my younger brother. It is my job to protect him. Besides, he is a bit of a celebrity these days. If he were to die, the media scandal would be an insufferable nuisance.”  
“Right, sure, of course, whatever you say.”  
Mycroft exhaled audibly, recognizing genuine compassion behind Lestrade's sarcasm. His voice went quieter.  
“Not to mention, our parents would never forgive me.” A few moments passed as Mycroft ran scenarios through his head. Lestrade waited patiently. Finally, Holmes laid out his conditions. “No police. If Dowson agrees, as soon as you transfer her to me, our safety will be insured by my people. I don't want any police presence within a 50-yard radius.”  
“Fine.”  
“Alright.” Mycroft nodded and pressed a button lowering the partition to give instructions to the driver. “Let's go see Rachel Dowson.”


	10. Chapter 10

As time passed, Sherlock became more and more annoyed with his current situation. One would think a certain level of fear would be inescapable, but boredom turned out to be a far more vicious attacker on Sherlock's psyche as he sat in his dark cell with no means of occupying himself.  
To be fair, fear was indeed present in his system. But it wasn't fear for himself. No matter how hard he tried, he could not ward off worry for John whom Sherlock last saw with a bomb in his hands. Was he alright? Was he even alive?  
Sherlock realized, of course, that an explosion like that would attract attention, that help would be on its way immediately, that his presence wasn't necessary to insure John's rescue, but he couldn't stop the uncertainty from plaguing his mind, nor the illogical guilt from almost making him groan as he kept running the events of the previous day through his head. He left John alone with a bomb. Who does that? He shouldn't have listened. Shouldn't have let John make him leave. He should have stayed and protected John.  
As if John needed protection. As if he were some vulnerable child. He was a soldier, he could take care of himself. And he was right to make Sherlock leave. Of course. It wouldn't have made a difference if he stayed. The abductors were after Sherlock. If he too was knocked out by the blast, they still would have taken him and left John behind. Or they would have tried again if their plan didn't work. Sherlock knew all this. And yet...  
Thirst and hunger have not yet started truly bothering him. He was experienced with self-induced starvation, which for once was coming in handy. But after having touched and smelled and licked the walls and floors to determine as much as possible about where he was, there was little else he could do but turn to the bottles provided by his abductor.  
He unscrewed the cap on one to find it to most likely be water. The other contained something that smelled of strawberry. Having been driven to despair by lack of stimulus, Sherlock took a small sip of the mysterious berry-scented concoction. It was a protein drink. Meant to provide sustenance to the captive without having to actually give him solid food.  
He took a small sip of the water. It didn't seem to be dosed with anything. Few chemicals were so subtle as to not have any smell or taste whatsoever, and Sherlock's senses were naturally heightened and honed by experience. Neither of the bottles contained anything other than nourishment. He almost felt disappointed. Food was boring, water was boring. He almost wished his abductors wanted to torture him. It would be more fun than this. He banged his head lightly against the wall behind him, trying to banish thoughts of John from his head, wondering how long he'd be kept here, and realizing that, perhaps, his abductors were torturing him after all.


	11. Chapter 11

“I didn't want to kill him,” Rachel Dowson spoke after Lestrade had laid out the plan and what they wanted from her, “but he was threatening me.”  
Mycroft tried to be polite, but couldn't help interrupting the oncoming weepy confession that would be of no use to their situation.  
“Ms Dowson, we've read your case file and your testament, we are aware of the circumstances of your--”  
“Shut up!” Dowson barked at him with so much authority that Mycroft found himself instantly silenced. “You want something from me, so you will sit and you will listen to what I have to say.” She stared Mycroft down until he could only nod. “The man that lived upstairs, he threatened me. But only ever subtly, and only with words. I went to the police, but they said there's nothing they could do until I could prove I was in actual danger, or until something actually happened. Basically, he had to hurt me first, only then would they be willing to help.” She took a shaky breath. “But then he threatened Lilly. And I know how I dealt with the situation was not ideal, but I would do anything to protect my daughter. And now... I don't know who that man really was and who these people are that want you to give me to them. I don't care.” She looked Lestrade in the eyes. “They killed my daughter. So, you can take whatever deal you want to offer me and you can keep it for a rainy day, I don't need it.” She turned to Mycroft. “I'll go with you, Mr Holmes. I'll do whatever is needed, as long as you promise me that you'll get those bastards. Or kill them.”   
“That's the plan.” Mycroft rose off his chair and straightened out his jacket. “We need to prepare.” 

As the time of the exchange approached, the tension in the air grew thicker. The police cleared out of the house, having found nothing in the way of hiding places but an old cellar and a few empty rooms.  
Mycroft's people were inconspicuously getting into positions in neighboring houses and on rooftops. There were 7 snipers altogether. Out of those, 4 had tranquilizer guns, 3 were aiming to kill. A few close-quarters combat specialists were strategically placed near enough to be able to come to Holmes' aid, but not so close as to raise suspicion.   
“I know you're all about style,” Lestrade ran his eyes over Mycroft's attire, impeccable as ever, “but I insist that you wear protective gear.”  
Mycroft rolled his eyes and unbuttoned his shirt just a bit to demonstrate a sleek Kevlar vest underneath. Lestrade's attempt to hide his astonishment at how well Mycroft looked while wearing a bullet-proof vest was not effective enough.   
“It's a new model.” Mycroft explained. “Twice the density, half the thickness.”  
“Where do I get one of those?”  
“You don't. It's not on the market yet. I know the inventor. She owes me a favor.”   
“Of course.” Lestrade suppressed his jealousy of Mycroft's seemingly unlimited connections. “Are you sure you don't want me to place my people nearby?”  
“Yes. I don't want some snotty rookie jeopardizing the whole operation.”  
“I wouldn't give you anyone but my best people.”  
Mycroft sighed.  
“Yes, I realize that, Detective Inspector. Don't take offense. I simply trust my people more than I do yours.” His eyes flickered with a weak spark of uncertainty. “Frankly, I don't truly trust them either. I just know they're more likely to do exactly as I say.”  
“Right.” Lestrade nodded, feeling grateful for the trust that came with such a confession. “Dowson is almost ready. It's time to go.”


	12. Chapter 12

John let go of the bomb, ran towards Sherlock's chair, lost consciousness, woke up, heard Sherlock's muffled scream.  
John let go of the bomb, ran towards Sherlock's chair, lost consciousness, woke up, ran to the window and saw Sherlock dragged away by masked thugs.  
John let go of the bomb, ran towards Sherlock's chair, lost consciousness, woke up, ran downstairs and watched as Sherlock was beaten to death by an angry mob.  
John let of of the bomb, ran towards Sherlock's chair, ran downstairs and watched Sherlock get hit by a passing car.  
John let go of the bomb, ran towards Sherlock's chair, jumped out of the window, broke his spine and watched helplessly as Sherlock was shot by a sniper.  
John let go of the bomb, ran for the staircase, lost consciousness, woke up, ran outside, Sherlock wasn't there.  
John let go of the bomb, ran for the window, jumped, was knocked out by the same people that dragged Sherlock away.

And on and on, John's mind supplied him with nightmares as he lay in his hospital bed, slipping in and out of consciousness, but never regaining it for more than a few seconds. He was stuck in a loop of horrific shoulda-woulda-couldas. Over and over he watched something tragic happen to Sherlock as he repeatedly failed to help him. All his mind had to go on was a pained, muffled sound in Sherlock's voice that John heard as he woke up after the blast.  
It was his name, actually. Sherlock screamed John's name. Why, even Sherlock wasn't sure. As a cry for help, as a warning to run, simply out of worry for John's safety.  
John wasn't in a coma, he wasn't concussed, most of his injuries, while painful, were not life-threatening. But he continued to remain unconscious while the nurses looked on with worry and compassion.  
“You need to wake up,” one of the kindest nurses kept whispering every time she came to check on him. She listened to his agonized mumbling, unable to make out what it was that he was saying, but knowing that whatever was happening in his mind couldn't be pleasant.  
Neither John nor Sherlock knew exactly what had happened to the other, but they both knew it couldn't be good. So, while Sherlock was quietly going crazy in his dark cell, John was unable to escape the vicious cycle of dreadful scenarios created by his own mind. Both were seemingly indifferent to the conditions of their own bodies as their thoughts kept unwaveringly coming back to each other.


	13. Chapter 13

The time of the exchange was quickly approaching. Mycroft and Rachel Dowson arrived at the house. She was handcuffed, still being a criminal awaiting trial. She didn't question that decision, didn't ask to be uncuffed for her own safety. This made more sense, was more believable, she knew it.   
They entered the building, stopping where the freezer with Lilly Dowson's body once stood, and waited.  
“Is this where you found her?” Dowson asked.  
“Yes.”  
“How did she die?” She tried keeping the trembling out of her voice. “I mean, do you think she suffered?”  
“There are many types of suffering, Ms Dowson, but according to the coroner's report, she was stabbed in the heart, which killed her almost instantly. She had small cuts and bruises, but they were almost certainly acquired through participation in the usual child activities. They were not defensive or inflicted through abuse. Most likely she died quickly and painlessly.”  
“Good.” She let out a sigh that seemed to shake her entire body. “Thank you, for telling me.”  
“I'd want to know too.”   
It was exactly 5pm now. There was a sound at the back door, someone was arriving. Mycroft and Dowson were bracing themselves.  
What they didn't know, of course, was that at that very moment, most of Mycroft's inconspicuously-placed people were being inconspicuously taken out. Some put up a fight, some were knocked out or sedated within seconds, one had his neck snapped. By the time the transaction was taking place, only 3 agents were still in their positions. They too would soon be incapacitated. The people Mycroft was about to deal with had no interest in being arrested or killed, and they were quite effective at preventing such a thing from happening.   
A man and a woman walked in, dragging Sherlock by his arms. He was semi-conscious.   
“Etorphine. He'll be fine.” the man explained in response to Mycroft's anger-filled questioning expression.   
They dropped Sherlock on the floor and took a few steps back. The man paused for a moment, listening to a report from his team delivered to him via an earpiece. When he was satisfied, he pulled out a radio controller and pressed a button.  
The walls around Mycroft and Rachel Dowson exploded, knocking them both out. The man and woman then picked up Mycroft and dragged him away into their vehicle parked at the back door before the police, or back-up that Mycroft's people had called for while under attack, could take any kind of action.   
Sherlock and Dowson were left lying on the floor among the ruins of the decimated house. As the car with Mycroft and the abductors was driving away, the man bound Mycroft's hands and feet.  
“We never wanted Rachel Dowson or your brother, Mr Holmes.” the man whispered at his unconscious captive. “We wanted you.”


	14. Chapter 14

By the time Lestrade and his people got to the house, Sherlock was almost fully awake and alert. He'd crawled closer to Dowson to make sure she was alive. She was standing near one of the walls when it exploded and was hit by several brick fragments. She was concussed and mildly wounded, but she would be alright. Lestrade had an ambulance waiting, and she was immediately given medical attention and taken to a hospital.   
Sherlock pushed paramedics away as if they were annoying pests buzzing around him. Aside from the tranquilizer still in his system, he was unharmed. He rolled his eyes and reluctantly accepted the ever-present shock blanket.   
“What happened?” Lestrade asked as soon as he was sure Sherlock was alright. “We heard you arrive, then there was a blast and after that – nothing.”   
Sherlock walked around the room, still a bit shaky from the chemicals in his system. He ran his fingers across the ruins of a blown-up wall.   
“They placed explosives inside the walls.”  
“I can't believe we missed this.” Lestrade groaned. “We searched this place up and down, and no one noticed there were explosives in the bloody walls?” He shook his head in shame and annoyance. “I bet that wouldn't have happened if you were here.”  
“Obviously.” Sherlock looked around the house. “These walls are much thicker than the others. They built an additional layer to conceal the explosives.”  
“And...” Lestrade didn't want to ask the obvious, but he needed to hear it said. “They took Mycroft?”  
“Indeed.”  
“Why?”  
“That I do not know. Yet.”   
“Did they say anything while you were there? Did they speak to you?”  
“Our communication was extremely limited. The only thing they let on was that they were not after me personally, but rather that I was a token to be exchanged. Who was the woman?”  
“Rachel Dowson. They told us they wanted her in exchange for you.”  
“Clearly that was not the case.”  
“They wanted Mycroft.” Lestrade longed for a cigarette. “This will be difficult. Just about everything he does is top secret. How are we supposed to know who took him and where to find them?”   
Sherlock nodded, but seemed to not really care about any of the DI's words.   
“Where's John?”   
“Hospital. He's stable, but unconscious.” Greg watched as Sherlock tried to be stoic and calm. “Come on, I'll give you a ride.”


	15. Chapter 15

Sherlock stood outside of John's room, watching his friend, assessing the damage, knowing that his sleep was filled with nightmares.   
Lestrade had left, promising to come back later, requesting that Sherlock tell him everything he could about his time as a captive, when he was ready.   
Sherlock stood on the threshold, unsure why coming inside seemed to suddenly be so difficult.   
“May I help you, sir?” A nurse broke Sherlock's nervous trance. She'd arrived to check on John and found Sherlock lingering in the doorway.  
“I...” He refocused on the outside world. “My name is Sherlock Holmes, I'm his...friend.”   
“Sherlock?” The nurse's face reflected mild shock and enlightened ecstasy of a mystery solved. “Sherlock. That's your name.” She chuckled a little at Sherlock's confused expression. “He's been having nightmares, and he kept muttering something,” she explained. “I couldn't understand what it was, it didn't seem to make any sense. But now it does. 'Sherlock'. That's what he was saying. He was calling for you.” She entered John's room, checked his stats, his fluids, his bedding. Then she leaned in close to his ear and whispered. “Wake up, sleeping beauty. Your prince is here.”   
She left then to give the men some privacy as Sherlock finally dared to enter the room.   
He pulled up a chair and sat next to John's bed. He didn't know what to say and whether it made sense to say anything anyway. He wasn't sure if John could hear him, if it would help if he spoke. He couldn't quite decide on what he wanted to say either.   
“John,” he said almost in a whisper, his voice betraying him. He watched John's face, twisted in a pained frown as little outward tells gave away the horrors inside his mind. He lay on his side. The medical staff made sure to keep him that way so as to not aggravate the burns on his back. His left forearm was in a cast. Bandages were scattered around his body, covering small wounds gifted to him by bits of exploded furniture.   
For a moment Sherlock considered kissing him to wake him up. He was almost ashamed of knowing the story of the sleeping beauty. It was a mostly-useless bit of cultural trivia. But it was referenced by other people quite often, and he even had a case once that attempted to mimic the events of the fairy-tale. Except the sleeping beauty didn't wake up because the mentally-unstable stalker gave his victim a little too much sedative. So Sherlock kept the information, thinking it easier to remember than to research every time someone made a reference to it. And now he watched John, unconscious, suffering, and he wished a kiss could wake him up as if it were a miraculous panacea that could cure whatever held him in this state. Sadly, logic said that the chances of that working were close to zero. Logic was cruel like that.   
Sherlock moved closer to John, took one of his hands in both of his own and kissed it gently.   
“I'm here.”


	16. Chapter 16

Mycroft woke up with a black bag on his head, a piece of tape over his mouth, and his hands and feet secured together with zip ties. He was in a vehicle, it was moving.   
He was half-kicked half-carried out of the vehicle once it stopped. Then he was shoved inside some sort of containment area, he assumed, and the door was closed behind him.   
After about 3 hours, someone came, forced him up, dragged him into a vehicle, and again they were on the move. As they stopped, again, he was stored somewhere for a few hours, then moved. This happened five times. Over the course of about 35 hours. Neither the blindfold nor the gag were ever removed. Aside from a few orders between the captors, there was no communication. He might have as well been a bag of potatoes carried from place to place.   
At the fifth place there was some yelling between the captors. The language wasn't among the ones at Mycroft's disposal, but he had enough philological knowledge to make out the general idea. Someone was really angry that they never considered that Mycroft's clothes and shoes might have had tracking devices in them. After that he was sedated heavily. Not enough to knock him out completely, but enough to make him unable to have any real control over his body. He was then stripped of all his clothes, dressed in something else, and checked over with what appeared to be a metal detector. Mycroft assumed they thought he'd have some sort of chip under his skin.   
Then he was moved again. And again.   
Finally they arrived at what appeared to be the final destination. Mycroft was placed in a metal chair bolted to the floor. His wrists and ankles were secured in place. Finally the bag from his head was removed. The bright light above his head assaulted his vision and he had to close his eyes for a while.   
A few minutes later, a table with a stereotypically horrifying assortment of torture implements was rolled in and a young woman walked gracefully towards it. Her hand hovered gently over the table, her fingers twitched and she let out a soft hum, as if selecting which movie to watch tonight or which bracelet to wear to a party. Finally she settled on a tool and picked it up.   
She walked towards Mycroft, stopped in front of him and smiled.   
“Nothing personal, Mr Holmes.” She motioned for him to look up into one of the corners of the room where a camera was located. “Just a show for people who paid well to see it. I'll remove your gag eventually. It really doesn't make a difference to me, but there's a certain script I've been requested to follow.” She got to work, seemingly indifferent to the muffled screams her actions were eliciting. “For what it's worth, you're not missing much by being unable to speak. I won't listen, and the people who paid me have no interest in anything you have to say.” She moved back to the table, discarding the blooded tool and picking up another implement, then returning to her victim. “They simply want to see you suffer.”


	17. Chapter 17

Sherlock had a very good internal clock, so he knew – 1 hour and 37 minutes. That's exactly how long it took for John to wake up after Sherlock walked into his room. He didn't move from his seat or let go of John's hand until he woke up. He was willing to sit there for as long as it took, for days, even weeks. But it only took 1 hour and 37 minutes.  
John was disoriented as he clawed himself out of sleep. At first he wasn't sure where he was and what was happening. Then he became vividly aware of all his wounds and let out a distressing groan.  
“John?” Sherlock squeezed his friend's hand harder. “Do you need morphine?”  
“Please.”  
Sherlock pressed the button to run some pain-killer into John's system.  
“I'll call a doctor.”  
“No, wait.” John held onto Sherlock's hands as he was about to leave. Pain shot through him as the skin on his back stretched and his broken arm ached, but he barely even cared about all that when it finally registered in his mind that Sherlock had been holding his hand all along. “Tell me what happened.”  
“What's the last thing you remember?”  
“Bomb went off, I heard your voice from outside, then I fell down the stairs.”  
“That's unfortunate.”  
“Shut up.” John smiled weakly. “How long was I out?”  
“A little over 3 days.” He ran his thumb from side to side over the skin of John's hand. He didn't know if it was comforting or not. Actually, he wasn't even aware that he was doing it. “You weren't comatose. You were just drifting in and out of sleep, but unable to fully wake up.”  
John groaned lightly, but morphine was kicking in, so the pain wasn't as bad anymore.  
“You were here the whole time?” he asked, almost too quietly.  
“No.”  
“Were you investigating? Did you find out who sent the bomb?”  
“No.”  
John looked up at Sherlock, catching on that clearly not all was well.  
“When I woke up, after the blast, I heard you. Or at least I thought I heard you. I thought something happened to you.”  
“Something did.” Sherlock sighed, more embarrassed than anything to admit the events of the past few days. “I was abducted.”  
“What?!” John almost sprung out of bed at that, but his injuries held him back.  
“Settle down, you'll tear a stitch or something.” Sherlock said in an exaggeratedly annoyed voice, while unconsciously squeezing John's hand a little harder. “I'm fine.”  
“Are you sure?”  
“Quite. I wasn't harmed. They weren't even after me.”  
“Who did they want?”  
“Mycroft.”  
“Wow. So, did you catch them? Is it over?”  
“No. They got Mycroft.”  
John stared at Sherlock for a few seconds, speechless.  
“They got...Mycroft? Is that even possible? Isn't that like stealing the Mona Lisa?”  
“Who's that?”  
“A painting. Really expensive. It was on a postcard your parents sent you from Italy last year.”  
“The creepy smiling lady?”  
“That's the one.”  
“Good simile then.”  
John chuckled. Then instantly felt bad about it.  
“So, what do we do now?”  
“Now,” Lestrade's voice intruded from the doorway, “we go get the Mona Lisa back.”


	18. Chapter 18

“Glad you're back in the waking world, John.” Lestrade smiled at Watson as he entered the room, noticing Sherlock's possessive hold on John's hand and smiling even wider.  
For a second, John considered letting Sherlock's hand go. It was a sort of defensive no-homo mechanism. But a different, far stronger defensive instinct overpowered it – something much more important, visceral, integral, which instead made him hold on tighter. In the future, he would think back to that moment, considering it a sort of defining moment, when his priorities suddenly got themselves sorted out, seemingly without his conscious involvement. Somehow right then his whole being knew what was truly important. And it appeared as though Sherlock had known it all along.   
“Is there new information?” Sherlock asked, watching Lestrade deposit himself into a chair with a tired sigh.  
“Not really. Forensics found some brick dust on your coat, but it's not enough to narrow it down to anything helpful.”  
“Anderson has your coat?” John looked at Sherlock in comical shock.  
“Yes, I've mentally said goodbye to that coat. It's cursed now.” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “The forensic analysis would hardly be of use now anyway. It's unlikely they'd keep Mycroft anywhere near where they kept me.”  
“There hasn't been any contact,” Lestrade went on, “unless they contacted someone in Mycroft's circles and we just don't know about it.”  
“Doubtful. Most of Mycroft's people know I'm their best chance at conducting any kind of investigation, they'd contact me if they had anything to go on.”  
“This is high-stakes political stuff. They might not be able or willing to involve anyone else. What if the abductors want to exchange Mycroft for government secrets or something?”  
“Then Mycroft is in far more trouble than we thought. A certain amount of money might be parted with to get him back. Government secrets – not so much.”  
“That's all the more reason for us to get him back ourselves.”  
“Right.”  
“You know, you really should care more about this.” Lestrade looked at Sherlock with a sudden mix of rage and helplessness. “He's your brother. Do you know how worried he was when you were kidnapped? How guilty he felt?”  
“Oh please. It wasn't worry or caring. He was simply furious that someone nicked me from under his unwavering vigilance. 'No one steals from Mycroft Holmes'.”  
“You ungrateful bastard.” Lestrade said in a quiet, but threatening voice. He looked at Sherlock as though he was about to punch him. At first Sherlock was merely surprised. Then his expression changed as he saw something in Lestrade's furious gaze.   
“If this is political, there is a possibility of international involvement.” Sherlock spoke as Lestrade managed his anger and John just looked mildly shocked and amused. “The only person among my abductors with whom I had any contact was a woman that brought me water. She had an Israeli accent and claimed to be a highly trained combatant.”   
“Mossad?” John suggested.   
“Possibly. Although not every highly-trained Israeli person is necessarily Mossad. She could be a mercenary, hired for the job independently, to make sure I could deduce nothing of use from my contact with her.”   
“Still, it's something.” Lestrade let out a breath, as though a heavy pressure was released.  
“Indeed. Little information is better than no information. Unfortunately, I never saw her face, all I have is her voice. But there might be something we could do. If she's a rogue soldier, we might be able to find video or audio material from her past which could help me identify her. If she's a kidnapper for hire, other victims of abduction might have had contact with her before. We need to search old case files. The chance is slim, but there is a possibility we might be able to find her.”  
“Oh, Mr Holmes,” a familiar female voice came from the doorway, “you would never find me.”


	19. Chapter 19

“But I almost hate to miss out on a chance to watch you try.” The woman Sherlock recognized as one of his abductors walked into John's hospital room. Her Israeli accent was gone. Now she sounded American.  
“Sherlock,” John whispered, “help me sit up. This is getting really intense and crowded, I'm getting a little tired of this angle.”  
The mysterious stranger watched as Sherlock helped John find a comfortable sitting position.  
“So,” Sherlock turned to face his former abductor, “who are you exactly?”  
“CIA.”  
“And who are the people that kidnapped me?”  
“A terrorist organization. They kidnap political leaders. Now they have your brother.”  
“What do they want?” Lestrade tried to hide worry in his voice. “Do they want information from him? In exchange for him?”  
“I'm afraid not. They're not your usual terrorists with grandiose threats and scary videos. There won't be ransom demands or blackmail. They don't care about money or information. I'm not even sure they particularly care about politics.” She paused, watching the silent question on the men's faces. “What they do is far closer to...revenge.”  
“Revenge?” Lestrade seemed to drop a shade in color. “For what?”  
“For whatever they think governments have done wrong. Or specific politicians. They just want to make them suffer because they think that politicians get away with their crimes. Or whatever this specific brand of nutjob believe to be crimes.”  
“So...” Lestrade continued to get paler. “What do they do with them exactly?”  
“Torture them. To death, unless they're stopped.”  
“Why did you come to us?” Sherlock finally joined the unnerving conversation.  
“Because I'm afraid that might be your brother's only chance. I can't get him out on my own, and there is a very real possibility that your government will not be willing to risk engaging this group once they realize how vast their reach is. As I'm sure you've figured out, this is not the first country they've visited. I was only sent to infiltrate them several months ago, but from what I've gathered so far, this has been going on for a long time, and more often than not, the governments either don't get there soon enough or choose to cut their losses by simply not doing anything at all once they realize who they're dealing with. In the countries where official law enforcement was sent to rescue the kidnapped politicians, the terrorists set off bombs in public places or kidnapped random citizens as retaliation.”  
“How many of them are there?” Lestrade ran a hand over his face.  
“Not sure, but I think they're more about quality than quantity. They prepare well, as you've witnessed at the exchange. They already have people and explosives in place in case your government decides to attempt saving Mr Holmes.” She took a deep breath. “These are not the kind of people you can just go in and shoot. One press of a button and one of your subway stations goes up in flames along with everyone in it.”  
“Which one?”  
She gave Lestrade an annoyed look.  
“That was an example. There is a reason my whole job in this so far has been to bring a protein shake to a prisoner of secondary importance.” She looked at Sherlock. “No offense.”  
“I assume you intend to stay on the inside?” Sherlock asked.  
“If possible. As much as I'd like to stick to the cute notion that saving one life is totally worth it, taking out a terrorist organization which will otherwise continue to kidnap and torture people, and occasionally blow stuff up is a considerably better option.”  
“That's a lot of responsibility to take on.”  
“This all...turned out to be much bigger than we originally believed when I was given my orders.”  
“Unlucky.” John said with genuine compassion.  
“Not if I succeed.”  
“So, what can you give us without jeopardizing your mission?” Sherlock got the conversation back on track.  
“I know of several locations where your brother might be kept. I wasn't part of his abduction, I'm not that high up the ladder yet. But I know which places they prepared. One of them was used for you, the others will be used to temporarily keep your brother before they settle on the final holding spot. If I'm able to narrow it down, I'll find a way to pass the information on to you. Otherwise, try casing the places yourself.” She raised her palm for emphasis. “ _Carefully_.”  
“Obviously.” Sherlock almost sounded insulted. “How long do you estimate he has?”  
“They will move him around for at least a day, maybe more. Once the torture starts, it depends mostly on his stamina and will to live, as well as which crimes they believe themselves to be punishing him for. Anywhere between a few hours and 3 days. One of our Senators that they've taken had survived for almost 40 hours by the time we rescued her.”  
“So you saved someone from them?” Lestrade asked hopefully.  
“Yes.”  
“And what did it cost you?” John felt that clarification was needed.  
“17 lives and a small bridge.” She then gave the men such a heavy look that even Sherlock felt close to almost being slightly unnerved. “I sincerely hope that you can save him, but for the love of whatever you believe in, if you value the lives of your city's people, make sure that when you go in, you make it clear that this is not a government-supported operation. If you have to kill any of them, let someone live and make sure they know this was an act of family saving family. They have to know the British government had nothing to do with it. I don't know how much of a conscience any of you have, but believe me – no amount of telling yourself it's not really your fault is going to make it easier to live with having caused a terrorist attack.”


	20. Chapter 20

“Can we trust her?” John asked after the agent left, having provided Sherlock with all the information she could.  
“Of course not.” Sherlock replied, matter-of-factly, without any malice.  
“This could be a trap.” Lestrade pointed out.  
“It could be a trap even if she is telling the truth.” Sherlock sat down on John's bed, already starting to think of a plan. “Or they could be aware of who she is and deliberately supplying her with false information. There are plenty of possibilities, but the fact remains that we have no other leads.”  
“So we need to check these places.”  
“No, _I_ need to check these places.” Sherlock stared at Lestrade like he was a toddler asking to drive a car. “You need to stay out of this. If she's telling the truth, law enforcement cannot be involved.”  
“I can go as a civilian.”  
“They know you.”  
“Maybe they don't. I wasn't at the exchange, I had no contact with any of them.”  
“They have undoubtedly followed Mycroft before taking him. They could have seen you together.”  
“I can still check out the holding places from afar. I was trained for this, they won't see me. And whatever rescue plan we can come up with, I could go as back-up or driver. I'll get new clothes, dye my hair, wear glasses.”  
Sherlock hesitated for about 15 seconds. Then he pulled out a pen and small notepad, and wrote down the first 3 addresses the CIA agent had given him.  
“You go check these places, I'll take the rest.”  
Lestrade nodded gratefully and walked out of the room, nodding at John as he exited.  
“What the hell was that?” John stared at Sherlock in amusement.  
“Please, tell me I don't have to convince you not to go.”  
“As much as I'd like to, I can barely move, I'd be a liability.”  
“Good.”  
“Again – what the _hell_ was that?” John watched Sherlock's face carefully. “You don't let someone win an argument unless you never disagreed with them to begin with and were just playing hard to get. It almost never happens.” He watched as Sherlock faked some emotions in response, and while he was a wonderful actor and liar, John knew he was right about this. “And before – Greg was getting all worked up, he was ready to punch you, and you just...sort of, agreed, passively. You didn't fight, you just did what he wanted. What the hell is going on?”  
“John, I'm deeply flattered that you paid so much attention to everything I did. But you seem to have completely failed at observing any of Lestrade's actions.” Sherlock gave John a moment to figure it out by himself, but it looked like that wasn't going to happen. “Does it not surprise you that he's taking such an interest in rescuing Mycroft?”  
“That's his job.”  
“Actually, it's not. He's a homicide detective.”  
“He cares about you, he doesn't want you to go alone. Plus, Mycroft is your family.”  
“Please.”  
“What are you implying? That he has some ulterior motive?”  
“Something like that.” Sherlock lowered his eyes and tried to hide his amusement behind a mask of slightly-annoyed indifference. “It appears that our good detective is in love.”  
John shook his head in confusion.  
“So?”  
“With my brother.”


	21. Chapter 21

“Wh...wait, he...what? Ah...are you serious?”  
“Have you known me to joke in this fashion?”  
“You mean...so, he...” And now John finally thought of Lestrade's most recent behavior, and puzzle pieces started fitting into a clearer picture. “I just thought he...are you sure?”  
“Infatuation has fairly distinctive physiological tells. They're not unique, but unless Lestrade is on drugs...”  
“Right. How long has this been going on?”  
“I don't know, John, you're the expert.”  
“On Lestrade?”  
“On love.”  
“Eh.” John let out a sort of sarcastic chuckle. “Look how well I'm doing in that respect.”  
His eyes shifted away from Sherlock, as if he was suddenly unable to meet his gaze. He seemed to want to say something else, but Sherlock interrupted the unspoken words.  
“Their attraction might have been developing for some time. Semi-dormant, more of a possibility than anything immediately obvious. But evidently, my brother's reaction to my abduction was quite noble and caring, it might have made him appear more attractive. And now he's gone and in danger – such turmoil can sway the heart quite easily. I imagine.”  
“Sound analysis.”  
“Not my area of expertise.” Sherlock countered the mild sarcasm. “I'm quite curious whether Lestrade's feelings are reciprocated. Might have to rescue my bother to find out.”  
“Well, I'm glad you finally have an incentive.”  
“Hm.”  
“You...you should probably go.”  
“Yes, of course. Brother. Abduction. Terrorists.”  
“Where are the doctors? Aren't they supposed to check on me?”  
“A nurse came by about 15 minutes ago and left without coming in. I think she decided that not interrupting us was better for your health.” He got up with the intention to leave. Then he hesitated, unsure whether he was supposed to shake John's hand or hug him or who knows. “Get well, John.”  
“Be safe.” John watched as Sherlock nodded and headed for the door. Graceful as ever, if just a tiny bit awkward in his stride. “Sherlock, wait.” He reached out for his friend with his uninjured arm, waiting until Sherlock took it in his. “I don't want this.”  
“This?”  
“You're going into a stronghold of a terrorist organization, pretty much on your own. I don't doubt your intelligence, or even your ability to defend yourself. But this is incredibly dangerous.”  
“Are you suggesting I don't go?”  
“No, no, of course not. You should go, if you want to. Do you?”  
“I believe I must.”  
“You could die, Sherlock. You do all kinds of dangerous shit, but this is a whole new level. He's your brother, but you don't owe him your life. You're not obligated to save him. It doesn't matter what anyone would think.”  
What others would think had never even crossed Sherlock's mind before that moment. Other people's opinions very rarely factored into his decision to do or not do anything at all.  
“What would _you_ think?” Sherlock sat down on John's bed again. “How would you feel if I did nothing and allowed my brother to die?”  
“Better than if you died trying to save him.”  
John's eyes were almost begging, but also guilty and hesitant. Sherlock squeezed John's hand.  
“Then I'll try my absolute best not to die.”  
He wanted to leave them, but John wouldn't let him.  
“This is not what I meant...when I said I don't want this. I didn't mean I don't want you to go, I meant...ugh.” John was completely oblivious in that moment to all of his wounds and the fact that his morphine was wearing off. “If something goes wrong, I don't want us to have parted like this.”  
Sherlock waited for an elaboration, but John simply pulled him gently closer until Sherlock was leaning towards John, as if a secret was about to be shared. John sat up as tall as he could without hurting himself, then leaned forward and pressed his lips to Sherlock's. He didn't expect much reciprocation. If Sherlock didn't run out or give him a speech on just how uninterested he was, John would consider it a win. Instead he felt Sherlock's free hand snaking gently to the back of his head, pressing them closer together. The kiss remained quite chaste, but that was alright. This wasn't the time or place for burning passion. This was a promise.  
When they parted, the world around them changed. It's hard to believe sometimes, but it happens. When the proverbial real thing comes along, it splits your world into before and after. Into a time when it was just you, and a time when there is more.  
“Please.” John rested his forehead against Sherlock's and squeezed his hand harder. “Please, don't die.”


	22. Chapter 22

As the timer Sherlock mentally set in his mind was ticking down, he was preparing for the potentially disastrous operation. But it wasn't quite as bad as it seemed at first. Just because police couldn't be involved didn't mean Sherlock was going in alone. He may not have had many friends, but he certainly had quite a few favors he could call in.  
By the time Lestrade located what he believed to be the future holding place, Sherlock gathered a small army, which consisted of a former arms dealer, a retired US Marine, and a homeless lady that knew 5 martial arts. 

“One of the places was completely abandoned.” Lestrade reported. “One had a guard. But this one looks busy. There are several guards and a van in the back.”  
“My places were all empty. Either irrelevant or already used and abandoned.” Sherlock informed. “I can have someone keep an eye on them, but it's more likely you've found what we're looking for.”  
“So, what now? We take in our misfit team and hope for the best?”  
“We might still have some time before they bring my brother here. If our informant's intel is accurate, he's safe until then. We have time to watch the place, see how many guards there are, get blueprints for the building.”  
“And _then_ we take in our misfit team and hope for the best?”  
Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes.  
“Actually, I'm taking them in, you're staying outside and trying not to cause more damage than good.”  
“Don't act like I'm somehow at fault here.”  
“You're not. Yet. But imagine someone else risking causing a terrorist attack and ask yourself if this sort of risk is truly justified.”  
Lestrade nodded nervously.  
“Don't you think there's something horribly wrong about us accommodating terrorists to make sure they don't hurt anybody?”  
“Well, of course there is, but let's discuss that great injustice of the world after we get my brother back from a bunch of psychotic vigilantes that want to torture him to death.”

They watched as a blue van pulled up and a restrained man with a black bag over his head was moved from the van into the building.  
Some time later a car arrived and a well-dressed woman was escorted inside. There was something almost regal in the way she walked.  
“Who's that?” Lestrade asked, mostly rhetorically, not expecting anyone to actually know the answer.  
“Judging by the way the men walking her inside are unsuccessfully trying to hide their fear, I surmise that that would be the torturer.”  
Lestrade's eyebrows headed for this hairline.  
“You're right.” The Marine walked up to them, checking one of the guns that the former arms dealer had provided for the group. “I've met her.” She pulled up one of her sleeves and showed them a few old jagged scars. “Holmes, I know you said we need to let someone live to tell the tale, but would you mind if I killed that one?”  
“Be my guest.”  
Lestrade swallowed his feelings on that. He wasn't even sure what those feelings were, he just knew they were not welcome.  
Everyone put in the expensive high-tech earpieces Anthea had provided.  
It started raining.  
“Shit.” Lestrade looked at the sky in accusation.  
“This might be to our advantage. Look.” Sherlock urged him to observe the guards who were forced to put on hooded raincoats. “Now they all look the same. And when they all look the same, it's much easier to look like one of them.” He turned to his team to give final instructions. “There are at least 9 guards. Roy,” he turned to the arms supplier, “do what you can, but don't be a hero, your fighting experience is limited, if you need to run – run.” He turned to the Marine and martial artist. “Disarm, incapacitate. I'll leave the amount of damage you do to your judgment, but feel free to be ruthless. Do things police wouldn't do. We need to let them know we're not the law. Whoever finds Mycroft first, let the others know. Once he's in the car, scatter. If tonight is a success, we're not just even, I'll owe you one.” He gave the magazine in his gun one last check. “Let's go.”


	23. Chapter 23

The first part of the plan went as well as anyone could hope. Roy distracted the guards in the front, allowing the others to easily knock them out and grab their outfits. After that they went inside and hoped their understanding of the building layout was accurate. Roy went to the back door to make sure Mycroft wasn't moved without them knowing.  
Once inside, the team split up to cover as much territory as possible in minimal time. They crept carefully, occasionally walking past open doors as though they belonged in hope of not raising suspicion should they be seen. It went fairly well at first. A few guards were incapacitated quietly. But, of course, eventually one of the terrorists screamed as the Marine was taking him out, the others quickly spread the word via coms, and soon everyone knew that there was an enemy in their midst.  
That, of course, was fully expected, and even welcome to an extent. They had to make a statement after all. If this were to go without further damage being caused, they needed to make sure the terrorists knew they were not the government's forces. So as soon as stealth was out the window, they started fighting full force – breaking bones and busting kneecaps.  
As the martial artist disarmed and held one of the terrorists in place, the Marine pointed a gun at his head.  
“Please,” he begged, “don't kill me.”  
“Should've thought of that before you signed up for whatever this is.”  
“I'm unarmed, you can't shoot me.”  
“Says who?” The Marine smirked. “We're not the police, buddy-boy. Your captive's family hired us to bust him out. Don't count on a moral code. If I want to blow your little brains out, you can bet your sweet ass I will.” She poured as much disgust and formidability into her glare as she could, which had the desired effect as the terrorist panicked, squirmed and did everything he could to break free. As he kicked his captor's shins, she pretended to be hurt and allowed him to escape. As he ran out the door with pathetic screams, the Marine turned to her teammate. “How was that?”  
“Good, very believable.”  
“Thank you.”

Wherever Mycroft was, he was hard to find. The team scattered and met up several times, checking every room. Eventually, however, Mycroft helped them in their search, inadvertently, as his screams reverberated against the bare walls, suppressed by the multiple layers of bricks, but loud enough for Sherlock to follow the vocal lead.  
There was a room inside a room inside a room. Seemingly built specifically for something like this. It wasn't even on the blueprints.  
Two guards were positioned outside the door. One had a machine gun, the other had knives and batons. Relying on the element of surprise, Sherlock stepped swiftly inside the room, shooting one guard once in each shoulder before he could even lift the gun, and then the other in his kneecaps.  
“Don't move!” A voice came from behind him. Sherlock was forced to freeze in his tracks. “You got far, I'll give you that much. But this is as far as you get.”  
Sherlock calculated his chances. Realized that he didn't really have any. Then he heard a familiar sound of something small flying through the air at a high speed, and then 2 bodies hitting the floor. He turned.  
“Sorry.” Lestrade was standing behind the unconscious terrorists with his emptied tranquilizer guns. “They called for back-up. I tried to warn you, but no one was responding.”  
“Oh. Yeah.” Sherlock took his earpiece out. “They have something jamming all frequencies but their own.”  
A scream from behind the door cut off the conversation, and Lestrade once again paled within seconds.  
“Is that...?”  
“Yeah.”  
The door was heavy, but unlocked. After Lestrade pulled it open, Sherlock went inside to find his brother and the well-dressed lady, who somehow managed to keep her clothes spotless even though her victim was covered in blood. When she saw Sherlock, she raised the tool in her hand and assumed a defensive stance, but as Lestrade entered and she realized that she was outnumbered and outgunned, she ran for a door on the other side of the room and was out of sight within moments.  
Lestrade hurried to free Mycroft, carefully cutting through the rope on his wrists. He was surprised to find Sherlock doing the same to bonds on Mycroft's legs.  
“We have a problem.” Sherlock whispered. “There's a camera.”  
“So?”  
“So the psychotic terrorists with a finger on the proverbial button just saw a police detective free their captive. And we can't exactly just turn to the camera and say 'hey, we're totally not with the police'.”  
Lestrade thought frantically. He needed to convince whomever was watching that this was an act of personal interest rather than a law enforcement operation. Many lives could depend on it.  
Once Mycroft's limbs where free, Lestrade put a hand on his cheek and wiped the sweat off his forehead.  
“Are you alright?” The worry in his voice was entirely sincere.  
Mycroft was woozy from blood loss and exhaustion, but he managed something that looked like a nod.  
“I will be.” His voice was weak and hoarse.  
“It's okay.” Greg rubbed Mycroft's cheek with his thumb. Then he lunged forward and kissed Mycroft on the lips. “It's alright,” he whispered after breaking the kiss at least 5 full seconds later. “You're safe now.”


	24. Chapter 24

Greg and Sherlock lifted Mycroft out of the chair as carefully as they could without wasting too much time. They half-carried him out of the room, hoping they wouldn't meet much resistance. Most of the terrorists were incapacitated, but more could be on their way.  
They met the martial artist at the front door, with 2 more freshly knocked-out terrorists.  
“Find the others,” Sherlock told her, “let them know we're done.”  
She nodded and headed back inside the building.  
Greg helped Mycroft get into the backseat of their get-away car. Sherlock took the wheel. Another 5 minutes and they were far enough away to start feeling safe. If nothing got blown up within the next few hours, they could consider the operation a complete success. 

Meanwhile, back in the building, in one of the back rooms, the torturer was down on the floor, with the Marine holding her at gunpoint.  
“I remember you.” The torturer ran her eyes up and down the Marine's body. “I remember you very well.”  
“You know, for someone of your reputation, I assumed you'd be a better fighter.”  
“One cannot be good at everything. But I'm the best at what I do. You know just how good I am.” Her mouth twitched into a smile. She knew she was about to die, but she showed no fear. This one wouldn't beg for mercy.  
The martial artist walked in on the unnerving scene, took it in and made no comment.  
“Target's out,” she informed the Marine, “we can go.” With that she walked out and went to search for Roy.  
The Marine took aim, took a deep breath, held it...then let it out in a sigh.  
“Wait!” She called after the martial artist. When she came back, the Marine dug a couple of zip ties out of her pocket. “Help me restrain her, would you?”  
The martial artist took the zip-ties and secured the torturer's hands behind her back.  
“What will you do with her?” She pulled the torturer up to her feet, and they walked her out of the building.  
“Drop her off at the embassy.”  
“Which one?”  
“Haven't decided yet. She's wanted in a lot of places.” She put her gun away. “Who's got the worst prisons?”


	25. Chapter 25

Mycroft groaned quietly as the movement from the car sent sparks of pain through his wounds. Greg winced as if the wounds were his own.   
“You'll be alright. We'll get you to a hospital.” He squeezed Mycroft's hand, and then almost dropped it like it burned him when the realization of just how many boundaries he'd crossed finally hit him. “About...what I did...back there...”  
“Don't worry, Detective Inspector.” Mycroft's voice was still a little hoarse, he sounded tired, but was regaining his usual poise. “I heard what my brother said. I presume there was some sort of 'absolutely no police' situation at hand.”  
“Yes. The people who took you are terrorists. Or so we're told. A police or military operation could cause them to retaliate by hurting civilians.”   
“Then let us hope your little act was effective.”  
“Right. Yes.”   
They felt the car gradually slowing down and finally stopping at the side of the road.  
“Sherlock?” Lestrade leaned towards the driver's seat. “What the hell are you doing? We need to get to the hospital.”  
“Yes, I know. But he's not dying, we've stopped the bleeding, and this is really annoying.” He turned to face the two men in the backseat.  
“What is?”  
“You! You two.” He turned to face Mycroft, who was already displaying his mask of arrogant indifference despite obviously being in a lot of pain. “I know you value your solitude and strive to form no attachments that could be used against you, and until recently, I admired and even aspired to emulate that. But I was right there, you know.”  
“Sherlock, this is none--”  
“None of my business? Says the man that has been meddling in my life for the past 20 years and installing cameras to track my every move.”  
“What are you talking about?” Lestrade had a general sense of what was happening, but he didn't want to assume, for fear of assuming incorrectly.  
“You weren't pretending to kiss him,” he said to Greg, looking both excited and slightly annoyed, “you were seizing the opportunity. And you,” he turned to Mycroft, ignoring his dangerous warning look, “you were shocked at first, but then your whole body relaxed, you leaned forward, you even tried to touch him, but your wounds and sore muscles wouldn't let you. Your whole body reached after him when he pulled away. Now, even if we take any kind of post-traumatic defensive reflexes of the human body out of the equation, this is you we're talking about. You avoid human contact at all costs, you hate being touched. The only way you'd react like that to a kiss is if you truly wanted it.” He paused for emphasis, giving both men a stern look. “So, why don't you do each other a favor and stop pretending like you were pretending.”  
He turned back to the wheel and started the car. As he was slowly gaining speed, there was silence.   
Finally, several minutes later, Greg carefully took Mycroft's hand and wove their fingers together.  
“Baby steps, okay?” He gently squeezed Mycroft's hand.  
“Agreed.”


	26. Chapter 26

Mycroft refused to go to a hospital. Too noisy and crowded. Considering what he'd just been through, more stress was not necessary, and he was going to be treated by private doctors.  
He needed quite a few stitches, a lot of disinfection, antibiotics and painkillers. There were mostly cuts and burns. Nothing that wouldn't heal. Physically anyway.  
Greg held his hand as he was treated, occasionally rubbing his shoulder or running fingers through his hair. Sherlock found himself surprised at how gentle the DI could apparently be. What surprised him even more was that Mycroft welcomed it. So many sides to everyone.  
Once the initial shock subsided, Mycroft would undoubtedly want to debrief everyone, find out what really happened, mobilize his forces, deal with the threats. But that was boring and political, and later. For now, Sherlock gave a polite nod and took his leave, heading straight for the hospital to see John.  
He met John's nurse again. She beamed at him like he was an old friend.  
“I think you should take him home,” she whispered. “His doctor wants to keep him here for a few more days, but doctors always do. I think he'll heal better at home, with you.”  
“Is he alright?” Sherlock wondered if John had talked to her or if she was just assuming that they lived together.  
“He's fine, but...at first he wouldn't wake up, and now he won't go to sleep. I don't know where you went, but he was worried sick.” As the nurse spoke, Sherlock expected judgment, for leaving his wounded friend who needed him, but there was only kindness and compassion in the nurse's voice. “You should be with him.”  
Sherlock nodded. He really couldn't wait to see John. He'd gotten quite used to having him around, but the emotion he was experiencing now was new. He didn't just miss John. There was excitement for things to come, a fear of the unknown and of possible loss, a longing that almost felt like a physical pull.  
He walked into John's room to find him sitting in bed with his laptop, frantically refreshing news pages.  
“I was under the impression that the use of communication devices in hospitals was frowned upon.”  
John looked up, let out an enormous sigh, and a weight of a thousands mountains fell off his shoulders. He snapped his laptop shut and put it away as Sherlock sat down on his bed. John put his arms around Sherlock and squeezed as tightly as his injured body would allow him.  
“How did it go?” he asked without breaking the hug.  
“Well. Mycroft's safe. No casualties on our side.”  
“Are you okay?” He finally let Sherlock go to check him over. There was a small cut on one of his cheekbones, but it had already been disinfected and bandaged by one of Mycroft's doctors.  
“Yes.” He took one of John's hands in his. “Are _you_?”  
“I'm fine. I just couldn't sleep.”  
“Your nurse told me I should take you home, but...”  
“Oh, shit.”  
There was so much to worry about that John had completely forgotten that their flat was in ruins.  
“We'll need to replace a lot of things.” Sherlock suggested.  
“Everything. We'll need to replace everything.”  
“Is it that bad?”  
“It's not just the bomb. There was a fire. I'm not sure how much survived.” John's face contorted in further realizations. “Mrs Hudson is going to kill us.”  
“Maybe I should go check it out first, see if there's even a home to return to.”  
“No!” John grabbed Sherlock's arm as if to stop him, even though he'd made no move to leave yet. “Please, don't go.” He felt a little embarrassed by his clinginess, but quickly justified it in his mind by taking a look back at the events of the past few days. “The nurse is right. I should go. This...sitting around in a hospital bed. It won't do me any good. Let's go see what's left of our home.”


	27. Chapter 27

“This...is a disaster.” Sherlock looked around what was left of 221B.  
“Could be worse.”  
“I'm not so sure.” He turned as he heard John let out a nervous giggle. Watson was holding up Sherlock's violin. Almost entirely unharmed. It had managed to survive by hiding under the table in a heap of Sherlock's miscellanea.  
“Of course it would survive.” John smiled in fascination. “The flat's a damn crater, but the violin is unscathed.”  
Sherlock smiled in pride for his instrument. He went to check his bedroom. It was messy, the door was blown out and its wooden remains were scattered all over the room. Most of his things were unharmed. His clothes were intact, but he'd throw them all out anyway. The stench from the fire was virtually impossible to remove.  
John watched as Sherlock returned to the living room. He looked lost. He could deduce so much from the wreckage – how the fire spread, when it was put out, which damage came from the bomb and which from the fire. But he had no idea what to do next.  
“We should move.”  
“Ah.” John sighed and walked to Sherlock's side. “Don't be so dramatic. The building is fine, it just needs some interior redecoration. Can't Mycroft hire someone to fix this?”  
“Do you really want my brother's minions rebuilding our flat? He'll install a hundred built-in cameras and bugs everywhere.”  
“Fair point. Anyway. We'll fix this.”  
“Why?”  
“Because we can.”  
Sherlock couldn't help but feel amazed by John's optimism. He wasn't the cheeriest of men by nature, which made his unwavering enthusiasm in the face of such destruction all the more valuable.  
“How's your bedroom?”  
“Haven't checked yet. I'm not sure if the staircase is safe.”  
Sherlock walked up the stairs. It made John a little uncomfortable, but the steps seemed solid enough, so he soon followed.  
John's bedroom was the only place in the flat, maybe even the whole building that was practically unharmed. It didn't even smell as badly.  
John sat down on his bed and immediately felt sleepy. Sherlock noticed.  
“You should sleep. Do you need help undressing?”  
Sherlock helped John out of his clothes until he was covered in only underwear and bandages. John felt a little awkward. Sherlock noticed that too, and was about to leave.  
“Wait. Where are you going?”  
“Downstairs. My bedroom is...moderately useable.”  
“Stay. Please.”  
Sherlock didn't hesitate. He didn't want to leave. He didn't even know why he wanted to stay, he didn't expect himself to want so much to just be at John's side.  
John carefully crawled into bed and stretched an arm out to welcome Sherlock to follow. Sherlock shed his own clothes and joined John under the covers. John had to stay on his side, so he spooned Sherlock, his broken arm hanging over his friend's side.  
Sherlock fell asleep within minutes, exhaustion from the long busy day finally catching up to him. John listened to his steady breathing and finally, finally calmed down. They were safe.  
He kissed the back of Sherlock's neck and let out a contented sigh. Little by little his consciousness faded, and for the first time in almost a week, he slipped into a deep, healthy sleep that held no nightmares.


	28. Chapter 28

**_7 months later_ **

John came home from work in a rather good mood. He brought in the mail and dropped it on the kitchen stool, because the table was covered in Petri dishes. Sherlock was sprawled out on the couch, waiting for his experiments to be ready for further inspection. John put the kettle on, picked up the mail and headed for the couch.  
He lifted Sherlock's feet, sat down and settled them over his lap. He started going through the mail.  
“There's a letter for you.”  
“Throw it away.”  
“It looks important. It's all...pretty. The handwriting is gorgeous.”  
“Then throw it away gorgeously.” As John did not comply, Sherlock sighed and sat up to inspect the letter. “Custom-made envelope, scented paper, calligraphy. Wedding invitation.”  
“Open it.”  
“Why? I'm not going, there's no point in opening the invitation.”  
John's phone dinged.  
“ _Make him open the letter._ ” he read the text. “From Greg.” John looked at Sherlock in confusion. “He and Mycroft aren't getting married, are they?”  
“No. My brother might be running this country, but he wouldn't be able to hide an engagement from me.”  
“Sherlock, just open the bloody letter.”  
“No.” Now, of course, it was a matter of principle.  
Sherlock's phone buzzed.  
“What?” he poured a bucket of annoyance into the receiver.  
“Open the letter.” was all Mycroft said before hanging up.  
Now he definitely wouldn't open it.  
John ripped the envelope out of Sherlock's hands and opened it himself.  
“That's federal offense.”  
“Sue me.” John took the ornamental invitation out of its paper sheath. “Who are Colonel Carol Latfield and Ms Lara Danvers?”  
“Damn.” Sherlock groaned.  
John dug another little piece of paper out of the envelope. _'You owe us one'_ , it said.  
“Sherlock?”  
“Remember when Mycroft was abducted by terrorists?”  
“I seem to recall something like that, yes.” John smiled sarcastically. “What ever happened with them, by the way?”  
“MI5 sent in an infiltrator to work with the CIA agent already on the inside. They're doing...something.”  
“You can't tell me 'cause it's classified?”  
“No, I just don't care.” Sherlock sighed and stretched out his toes. “When saving Mycroft, I compiled a rescue team out of some of my contacts. Apparently, two of them are now getting married. I also stupidly decided to motivate them at the time by saying that if the operation were to be successful, I would...owe them one.” He dramatically flopped backwards on the couch and threw an arm over his face. “John...we're going to a wedding.”


	29. Chapter 29

“I love when evil plans backfire so epically.” John mused as he and Sherlock slow-danced at the Latfield-Danvers wedding afterparty. “A bunch of vigilante terrorists wanted to hurt a politician, but instead managed to bring 3 couples together.”  
“Sounds like bad fiction.”  
“Life can be really cheesy sometimes.”  
They finished their dance and stood by a wall, watching the room. The newlyweds dominated the dance floor – Latfield in her uniform and Danvers in a flowing light-blue dress. Some parents cried, some bridesmaids tried reconciling happiness and benign jealousy. Greg kept trying to get Mycroft to dance. Sherlock tried choking a smile as he watched them. John grinned unapologetically as he watched Sherlock.  
“What?” Sherlock asked without facing John.  
“You.” John giggled. “You're happy for him.”  
“It's fascinating. One of the most powerful men in the country, and all his armor and aplomb go out of the window when his boyfriend is around. It's been years since he's shown such vulnerability.”  
“You've seen him tied down and tortured.”  
“Irrelevant. Anyone can punch or stab him, that won't crack his shell. But this...I haven't seen him like this since our short acquaintance with the public education system, when he came home and said he liked a boy from school.”  
“Oh my God.” John laughed wholeheartedly.  
“Mummy was in shock. She came around eventually, but I'm afraid her initial reaction left a bit of a scar on my brother's psyche.”  
“That's terrible.” John's smile fell away.  
“It's alright.” Sherlock watched as Greg finally pulled Mycroft out of his chair and they danced awkwardly at the edge of the room. “Looks like it's all healed up now.”

The party was winding down. The newlyweds were about to leave for their honeymoon in Niagara Falls. The guests were delivering their final wishes and congratulations.  
Mycroft stood outside, leaning into his umbrella, watching the crowd.  
“You're not smoking.” Sherlock joined him.  
“I quit.”  
“So have I.”  
“We're whipped, aren't we?”  
“No. They make us better.”  
They stood in silence for a bit. Each watching his partner, and keeping a bit of attention on each other as well.  
“I never thought this would happen.” Mycroft admitted. “To either of us. Certainly not to both.”  
“You thought we were unlovable.”  
“I thought we were incapable of love.” He turned to face Sherlock. “I never did thank you.”  
“For saving your life? No, you didn't.”  
“For giving me this. You pushed me. Both of us.”  
“Your resistance in the face of mutual attraction was infuriating.”  
“I imagine.” He watched Greg as he hugged the brides. “I haven't changed my mind, you know. Caring is a disadvantage. Not a day goes by that I don't think of what would happen should someone try using my relationship against me. If he chooses to leave me or dies.” He dug a hole in the ground with the tip of his umbrella. “It's a soft spot. A weakness.”  
“And yet you've made no effort to get rid of it.”  
Mycroft met Greg's eyes in the crowd and smiled, not unlike the painting to which John had once compared him.  
“It's worth the risk.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The End.  
> I hope you enjoyed the fic. Many thanks to everyone who read and commented. Especially La_La_Laughing who commented when no one else did, to keep my spirits up. It was very sweet of you and really helped! ^_^  
> If you have any questions or comments, feel free to contact me here or on [Tumblr](http://faithsoprano.tumblr.com/).  
> Thanks again for sticking with this till the end! I hope it was at least moderately satisfying.


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